The Cast
by Erileen
Summary: It was only white plaster, so why did it bother Dean so much? One shot.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form…geesh, I had to re-post this story just for _that? _**

**Author's Note: Just another one shot...my first attempt at a non-flashback story.**

**Warnings: Language, hence the rating. **

Dean didn't know why it bothered him so much. After all, Sam had broken his arm before, way worse. Hell, he'd broken it really bad when he was only nine – they had to put him under and do surgery and everything. Those doctors put something into his arm – needles. Or pins. Or both.

Dean remembered – it was easily one of the most stressful things he'd ever gone through. Just sitting in that stupid waiting room…replaying everything in his head. That stupid attic…Sam went right through the floor, no warning. He crashed in on an unsuspecting retired couple enjoying their breakfast; poor Grandma nearly lost her choppers. After that, John stopped sneaking into houses through their attics.

But anyway, Sam had broken his arm way worse than this. He hadn't even _noticed _that his arm was broken until after they'd vanished that spirit. "Dean, my arm…" he'd said. Dean rolled back his brother's sleeve, and grimaced – red, swollen, distorted.

"C'mon dude, time to hit the ER."

"My God, it's killing me."

"We'll get you all casted up, kid. What did it?" He tried to stay calm as they made their way to the Impala. If he was calm, Sam was calm. That's what Dad had always said. It was true – for the most part. Dean could sense Sam was nervous – he was breathing fast, holding his arm to his chest at an awkward angle. "Just breathe, Sammy, we'll be at the doctors in just a second, okay? Hang tight there." He slammed the passenger door closed and got ito the driver's seat, revving the engine and speeding as fast as he could to the emergency room.

They waited for nearly a half an hour before Dean got fed up. "Look, he's in pain, can't you just take him back already?"

"Sir, you just need to be patient. Your brother's condition is not life threatening, so –"

"Hello, I'm about to have a friggen heart attack here! How's _that _for life threatening?" Dean squawked.

"Come on, Dean…" Sam said meekly from the chair.

Dean cast the nurse a dark glare as he made his way back to the chair next to Sam. "Ten minutes, or this place is going to get an unpleasant surprise."

"Cool it, Doctor Evil. Go shave your head and get a kitty cat, will you?"

"Geez, you're a smart ass even when your arm's split in two." Bad idea; he saw Sam grimace even more at the thought of his bone shattered, and Dean mentally smacked himself as he searched for a diversion. "If I'm Doctor Evil, what does that make you? Austin Powers or the chick he hangs around with? Because you really could pull off either – your hair's long enough, anyway."

Sam opened his mouth to protest but was cut off when a nurse finally called him back, much to Dean's satisfaction.

And now…the waiting would commence. He sat around and doodled in the magazines until a nurse got angry with him. He supplied the nurse with fake insurance to cover Sam's medical bills. He counted the dots on the ceiling tiles and was up to 10,891 when Sam came over, his arm coated up to his elbow in white plaster, save a few fingers.

"Hey," he said, smiling as he stood up. "I'd give you a high five, but that'd just be ragging on you…"

"Like this isn't," Sam cut back. He shook a bottle. "Pain pills, for whenever I need, no more than two every three hours."

"So I need to watch close to make sure you don't OD, right, my little druggie?"

"Cast on for six weeks, can't get it wet –"

"Damn, you're going to stink. Well, I can always tie you to the roof of the Impala when the stench overcomes me."

"Well, why don't I go get you a microphone and a laugh track and you can have your own comedy?"

"A laugh track and not even a live audience? You cut me to the quick, Sam," Dean said as he moved towards the door.

Sam just shook his head and couldn't help but laugh as he made his way to the Impala.

What power did that damn white plaster have over him? As he watched his brother doze on his bed, his heart skipped a beat every time he saw it. That stupid, stupid cast.

He thought about it over and over again – that fucking spirit! The way it had just lobbed Sam across the room…that must have been what broke Sam's arm. He had landed awkwardly – he should have gotten his little brother out of that place right then and there. After all, ten minutes of warding off that stupid thing couldn't have helped his arm. Why was he so stupid, so selfish? Sammy had gotten hurt, and all he cared about was that bitching spirit…

Sam stirred, but didn't open his eyes. He groaned, and laid his un-casted arm across his face. "Dean, can you get me those pills? My arm is killing me."

Dean jumped up. "Sure thing, Sammy. You need anything else – water, soda, anything?"

"Just some water, thanks," Sam sighed. Dean returned quickly and helped Sam sit up and down the pills.

"There you go, kid."

Sam glanced up. _"Kid? _Dean, you've got four years on me, not forty."

Dean grinned, crunching the paper cup in his fist. "Au contraire, my friend. Though I may only have four years on your in physical age, when it comes to maturity, I have to say, I've got a lot on you."

"So you think."

"Bitch."

"Idiot."

"Bastard."

"Double bastard."

"Ooh, double bastard? Wow Sammy, why don't they just give you a crown and the title, 'Comeback King' now?"

"Shut up, will you?"

Dean laughed a little and flicked off the light. "G'night, Sam."

Dean woke up suddenly, several hours later. He moaned and rubbed his eyes – it was three in the morning? Jeez, what the hell was he doing up?

His thoughts were answered quickly when he saw that the light was on in the bathroom, and the door was wide open. He rolled out of bed and walked over, bleary eyed, to find Sam huddled on the bathroom floor.

"Wasamata?" he asked.

Sam shook his head; teeth chattering. "I dunno…I just, I feel so sick, I can't stop shaking…I'm so freaking cold." He suddenly started to throw up.

Dean racked his brain. This was familiar, this was too familiar. Why was this familiar?

Suddenly, he remembered. He ran back to the bedroom, flipping the light on and grappling for the bottle of pills and rolling it around in his hands until he got to the ingrediants.

There it was – he was allergic to these. Amoxo…something or other, Sam was so fucking allergic to that stuff. He sprinted back to the bathroom, pulling Sam up.

"Sammy, you're allergic to that amoxo-stuff! You're allergic to those damned pain pills! Come on Sammy, stay with me here…how many of those have you had?"

Sam didn't answer. Dean picked up the phone and called 9-1-1, and within minutes the medics rolled on it.

"Hand in there, Sammy…"

How could he have forgotten? It wasn't like Sam was allergic to a huge long list of things, it was only this one fricken word. He'd let Sam down – twice. He should have done something – he didn't know quite what, but he should have found out what it was and done it.

He sat in the emergency room, waiting. He sat, head in hands, still replaying the events over and over in his head like an endless broken record. His brother had been _counting _on him. It was his job to keep him safe, and over the years he'd done a fairly decent job but there were always times when he screwed up, like the world's biggest shit-for-brains...

"Dean Winchester?" a voice suddenly said. Dean glanced up. "Your brother requested to see you."

Why did that sound so bad…'requested to see you.' Couldn't she had just said, 'your brother wants you' like any other normal human being? He stood up on shaking legs and hurried to Sam's room, pushing the door open with an air of caution.

Sam was laying on the big bed. He had an IV and he was pale, but other than that he looked…like Sam. Like a Winchester. "Hey kiddo, you okay?"

Sam laughed. "I'm just super-dee-duper, Dean."

Dean groaned, sinking down into a chair. "Sammy, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I…I screwed up, I should have remembered…"

"Dean," Sam said, "get real. It's my allergy, if there's anyone at fault here it's me."

"No, I should've remembered –"

"You can't protect me from everything, Dean!" Sam cried.

Dean stared down at his hands. "I know," he said, _so that's why I try to protect you from most things, little brother, _he thought.

He went over to the bed and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know, Sammy."


End file.
